


Restraint

by entanglednow



Category: Being Human
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-29
Updated: 2009-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mitchell starts it, Mitchell always starts it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restraint

Mitchell starts it, Mitchell _always_ starts it.

He goes from an untidy slouch to something that seems more purposeful, without seeming to move a muscle. George looks at him sideways, but he's feigning watching Time Team too well to accuse him of anything.

But the next time George's attention is back on the screen. Mitchell hits him in the face with a pillow.

It's so unexpected George is briefly nonplussed. He scowls across at him, but Mitchell is wearing his familiar face of impending boredom. George thinks maybe he should make some sort of statement about how he isn't a _plaything_ to Mitchell's whims.

But pretending he's enthralled in the excavation of a twelfth century church is pointless.

Not that Mitchell gives him time.

Mitchell doesn't use his uniqueness very often, he doesn't normally let it out. But the next time the pillow hits George there's _weight_ behind it. Enough to take him by surprise, and leave him swaying ridiculously on the bed while Mitchell laughs at his expression.

He's not sure if should be affronted by that or not.

"How old are you again!?"

Mitchell doesn't answer, just laughs and swings again.

George throws his own pillow up in reflex.

Mitchell's pillow bursts, taking them both by surprise.

When George finishes blinking there are feathers _everywhere._ It looks like a sudden, violent snow storm has enveloped his room, and George has a second to spare on surprised amusement, before he remembers that _he's_ going to be the one hoovering feathers out of the carpet for the next three weeks.

"Mitchell!" he hates the high-pitched rise at the end, because he's _not_ the parent in this house, no matter what the others seem to think.

Mitchell is still laughing, there's a feather on his nose, and more strewn liberally through his mad hair. He's smiling like some sort of demented cherub, in a way which, in that one second, George finds viscerally, almost _painfully_ attractive.

He reaches out, without thinking about it, to move a particularly enthusiastic feather from the hair at Mitchell's temple, but then realises what he's doing and awkwardly puts his hand back down.

Sometimes George hates himself a little for making moments like these awkward and uncomfortable.

Mitchell doesn't miss it, Mitchell rarely misses anything, though he usually doesn't comment on it. George doesn't think he will this time either.

Mitchell just picks a feather off of George's ear, and he does it so easily. Does it like it's _nothing._ Because he's Mitchell and he can, he's always in control of every thing he does.

But George is wrong.

"You have this thing-" Mitchell starts slowly, he fiddles with the feather briefly before letting it fall.

"I do not have a _thing,_ " George protests, though to be fair he's not entirely sure what this thing is yet, he _might_ have a thing. "What? What thing?"

"You're always restraining yourself, you stop yourself from doing things, all the time."

"There's a valid reason for that!" George protests. "I can't go around reacting to things, at least not all the time. Do you have any idea-"

Mitchell waves a hand.

"I'm not talking about that, I'm not talking about that sort of stuff. Just normal everyday little things, you stop yourself from doing them. You pull back, like someone might look at you funny. But you don't have to, you're not weird in here, you're just George."

Mitchell puffs what's left of the pillow on his lap, and there's a tiny volcano of feathers.

"You should just...do them. You won't scare us off, no matter how weird you get."

George frowns.

"You make it sound like I have all these creepy urges."

Mitchell holds a laugh and it shows in his face as a smile.

"You hold a lot of stuff in George, you shouldn't."

"I can't," George says simply. "I don't get- I can't." He shakes his head.

Mitchell does nothing but look at him for a long second.

"Do you want me to do it?" he says eventually, quietly.

George isn't expecting it, and he stops breathing because Mitchell can't _know._ There's no way he can know what George isn't doing, because sometimes George is only barely aware of it himself.

But then George sometimes forgets that Mitchell knows _everything._

George takes a breath, doesn't speak, and he thinks it's cowardly to be half way between terrified and relieved, thinks it would be more than cowardly to accept the offer. When he can't even-

"Mitchell," it sounds like it hurts, though he's been vulnerable too many times around Mitchell for that to sting.

"Say yes."

"Yes," George says, but it's more nervous obedience than an actual answer to the question.

Mitchell breathes laughter through his nose, soft enough that George doesn't take offence, and shifts on the bed.

There's a long hand on George's face, surprisingly warm, and maybe that's because Mitchell has been sprawled out in the warmth of his sheets for the last two hours.

That's as far as George gets, because Mitchell leans all the way in, until his hair trails ticklishly across George's face, and kisses him.

It's just the faintest pressure against his mouth, but it manages to turn absolutely everything upside down.


End file.
